


The Heart of the Wolf

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: Back Against a Wall [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Desire, Dubious Consent, Enemy Lovers, F/M, Love, Making a compromise, Mildly Dubious Consent, Queen in the North, Sandor Clegane as a Southern General, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sleeping with the enemy, The Heart of the Wolf, The South, finding yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan / Westerosi AU: The Queen of the North is at the end of the road, desperate to keep her realm and out of options. A proposition made in the dead of night by the one man she never expected, might just change her life forever.A warning for some dubious consent.





	1. In Pursuit of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my dears! I'm not dead, drowning in work and stories. I wanted to get this story out to bide myself more time for a Midsummer Eve's Bounty ;-) Things are moving well but slowly. The next story is The Warrior's Test ;-)
> 
> A special thanks to teakturn for giving this a read and helping me get it up to snuff!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost and out of options, Sansa attempts to escape capture by the Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Toodleoo for fixing my grammar. It's clear I have no respect for the English language at all!
> 
> Also thanks to Teakturn for reading through this story and challenging description and word choices!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> A big huge thanks to baileyblueroan for this fantastic fan collage. Check her out on Tumblr! Hugs and kisses!

#   

 

 

# Chapter 1: In Pursuit of the Wolf

Gasping violently in the freezing afternoon air, Sansa pressed her dapple grey mare as hard as she possibly could. The sub-zero temperature made her eyes water in the harsh wind, burning her nostrils and inner ears. The cold weather making her hurried escape all the more painful. An added insult to a wounded pride.

“Come on! Come on!” the Queen of the North urged her mare as it tore through the snow-blanketed forest.

Three days past, Sansa had welcomed the coming of the an early snow. Winter had always been a friend of the Starks. It was their saving grace in a crisis, for they knew the cold and the darkness better than any man. She had been supremely confident the snow would help her seal her victory over the southern armies come to invade her lands. She had been so sure her men would prevail. But now, tearing through the northern wood, the object of her enemy’s pursuit, three days seemed a lifetime ago. She had not quite come to terms with her fate, but was well aware that instead of celebrating her victory.

Sansa Stark was running for her life.

Her horse faltered slightly in the knee deep snow, but regained its footing quickly racing through the thick forest. Every second counted, any mistake would cost her, and Sansa was not ready to pay her debt to anyone—not even to the Stranger himself.

“Yah! Yah!” She ordered her horse to move faster, the steam already rising from its back, white air escaping its flared nostrils.

Sansa knew the black stallion hunting them was unaccustomed to this kind of weather, and she hoped the deep snow would make it antsy. Like his rider, the stallion was of the South and had probably never seen a snow fall like this, much less chased another horse through it all. On an open field, the huge black charger would have certainly beat her and her mare, even with his heavy rider. However now, the snow drifts were surely impeding his progress, making his bulk work against him. Sansa prayed the weight of his rider, mixed with the density of the snow would tire the black horse out., give her the luck she needed to escape him.

Her mare ran lickety-split between the trees of the dense wood, so fast that it was difficult to duck under the low-hanging branches. One caught Sansa’s black heavy cloak, ripping it from her body. The chill in the air met her exposed skin, and instantly she could feel goose bumps forming. Her auburn now hair flew loose behind her, a slave to the speed of her mount, and her fingers burned because she held the reins so tightly.

 _We can do this._ Sansa encouraged herself while the made their way down a steep snow bank.

Her armies had fallen quickly at Moat Cailin, something she had not anticipated. They had been utterly destroyed, if truth be told, one memorable defeat in the multitude of victories she had enjoyed over her enemy. Unable to take the King’s Road back to Winterfell, Sansa was fleeing her captor through the forest and praying to any god who would hear her that she would find the way. She knew the North well—that was never in question—but in the chaos of battle and in the heightened emotion of the moment, Sansa couldn’t be sure she was headed in the right direction.

What made it even worse was that the man hunting her knew his craft better than anyone. The man chasing her was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms to be as skilled in the hunt as he was with a sword. She had watched him slay her three bodyguards in cold blood, never standing a chance against the mighty warrior. Their skills worthless in his wake, their swords mere afterthoughts as they bravely faced a certain death so that she might live.

Now the most feared warrior in Westeros had his sights set on her.

Crossing a frozen river, the Queen of the North urged her mount over an embankment and hoped there she might find some easier terrain for both of them. Slowing her horse to a trot, Sansa scanned the woods around her. The afternoon was grey, clouds shrouding any view beyond the trees. Snow was still falling, though not as heavily as this morning—its flakes wandering through the air as if their journey to the floor was not a straight line, but rather a long, windy path. She shivered, reminding herself that she would not last long in the wilderness without some warmth.

A pang of hopelessness hit her in the chest.

There was an eerie silence in this wood, as if no man or beast inhabited it. This should have been comforting because, on the surface, it meant the large stallion was no longer in pursuit. Hopefully it had stumbled in the snow, or tired out beyond his ability to reach her, but somehow Sansa found little comfort in this silence.

Going with her gut, Sansa lead the mare off to the right, where she could make out some kind of ridge. _Hopefully_ , she thought, _I can get my bearings there._

“Hup!” She jostiled her horse to move that way.

Something wasn’t right.

Sansa knew this instinctively, yet she didn’t quite know why. It was then when she heard a twig snap, that she spurred her horse in the opposite direction. “Yah yah!”

It was him. Her pursuer was trying to flank her knowing she’d try to find higher better ground. There was nothing worse than the feeling of being closed in upon, that the net was getting smaller and smaller, but Sansa was a fighter and a queen. She would not give in so easily.

Pressing her horse onwards as fast as she could, Sansa made her way over some high snow banks and through a few fallen trees. Then she had to pull back on the reigns hard. Both she and her dapple mare nearly fell backwards. A cliff shrouded in grey fog had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Both she and her animal were spooked, a shot of adrenaline coursing through her already heightened senses. Thankful they had not run of the ridge to their deaths, both rider and horse caught their breaths a brief moment. But their relief was short lived, for the heavy hoove falls of the black stallion told Sansa that his rider was behind them.

“It’s the end of the road, my lady,” her pursuer said. His voice was gruff and low, and it held the sort of calm that only a man confident in his victory would have.

There was nowhere to run, Sansa knew that. She had also promised herself that, if it came to this, she would not shed a tear nor plead for her life. She was a Stark—the last of the Starks—and she would handle herself with honor and dignity no matter the cost. But that didn’t stop her from taking a deep breath and preparing herself for the man behind her. Now, more than ever, she needed to be clear headed.

The Hound’s face was stone, not showing one single emotion. He was as cold as the ice that covered the rivers of her homeland, his hair long, the snow steadily accumulating on his heavy cloak. Few men squared off with Sandor Clegane as she did now and lived to tell about it. The man was a killer. Strong, efficient, and fearless. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill any man, woman, or child that got in the way of what he wanted.

And right now, nothing stood between them.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. As a child he had scared her, and today was no exception. Whereas before she would have recoiled at a face she could not have laid her eyes upon, now she knew the depths of violence he was willing to go to in war, and that frightened her more than any visible scar could. She had done well to repel his army, beat him at his own game—a man’s game. That brought with it mixed emotions and the fear of not knowing what he would do now. There was no doubt in her mind the Hound would execute a male captive on the spot, but she could not be so sure he would give her the same fate. What she did know was that he was here to take her homeland in the name of the Lannisters, and she hated him for it.

They eyed one another from afar, taking each other's measure. Perhaps he was waiting to see if she would run for it, or even hoping she would. Sandor Clegane loved the thrill of the chase. She was but a fox to his hound, a prize to be stalked, chased, and captured. Licking her lips subconsciously, Sansa weighed her options, knowing it was an all or nothing type of scenario in which he held all the cards.

Any hopes of a final escape were soon dashed as a dozen of his men finally caught up with them. They wandered through the woods, slowly emerging from the fog and formed a semi-circle around the two of them.

 _All these men for one young woman?_ Sansa thought to herself. It was as if she were the most dangerous warrior in Westeros instead of the hulking man in front of her.

Satisfied she would not run off, Clegane dismounted his huge war horse and sauntered slowly over to her. There was an arrogance to his walk and a victorious glow to his grin that quickly turned Sansa’s fear to rage.

 _How dare he!_ was all that ran through her mind while he approached.

The snow was easily up to his thighs, which made it difficult even for a man of his size and strength to trudge through the snow. The Hound came to the side of her horse, a smirk on his face knowing he had won.

Knowing she was his.

Before he could offer a chivalrous hand, Sansa lifted her boot and kicked Clegane square in the face. A huge amount of spit and blood flew from his mouth and landed in the pristine snow in front of her horse. Her self satisfaction at this moment didn’t last, however, as the Hound’s reflexes were quicker than they should have been for a man his size. Grabbing her ankle, Sandor yanked her unceremoniously off her horse. Falling into the snow and landing on her back felt like nothing compared to the crushing weight of his body atop her.

Sansa’s attempt to wriggle from his grasp was useless, only sending laughs through the soldiers around them. Her wrists clasped above her head she could only watched as his disfigured, disgusting face, now dripping with blood from the lip she had split, came closer to her own.

“You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?” he said ironically, snorting at his own joke. When he did so, some of his blood splattered on her face and cheek, making her twitch even more in his iron grip.

Sansa kept her eyes on him, but turned her face reflexively away from his, making him laugh all the more. The snow was so violently cold, soaking her dress through and making her shiver despite herself. Clegane’s weight was crushing, his mood surly and his expression a mixture of amused and angry. But she didn’t turn away from his eyes or his face, though she feared him and all the things he could do to her.

He then yanked her abruptly from the ground so that she stood on her feet in front of him. In one swift motion he unpinned his heavy cloak and threw it over her freezing shoulders. The fur was warm when it hit her body, hot even.

Numb, Sansa walked the couple of paces with him to his triumphant stallion. In yet another show of chivalry, Clegane laced his fingers together and fell to one knee in the deep snow, in order to help her mount his huge war horse. She did so without incident, knowing that to try his patience would be to feel his unbridled wrath.

The monstrous warrior settled in behind her, his armor clanking as he did so. With one whistle they all turned back the way they had come. They would go back to Moat Cailin, back to her failure, to her destruction, and from there?

Who knew?


	2. Cornering the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor offers Sansa a pact on an indecent nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself that if I got close to finishing this huge chapter for Midsummer's Eve that I would publish this second chapter. So I am. I mean damn, that thing is like 25 pages, but it's getting there. 
> 
> For now, enjoy this dark little fic. 
> 
> Thanks again so much to teakturn and Toodle oo for reading this chapter, giving feedback and really pushing me to make it better. Again, my grammar is shit. I don't know how I have a higher education degree with some of the things I'm doing to the English language sometimes, but they are keeping me honest. Kisses to both of you!

#  Chapter 2: Cornering the Wolf

 

They approached a wooden building off of the King’s Road, a structure three stories tall with southern soldiers’ tents and implements of war strewn all over the land surrounding it. There was a sadness here, a sorrow that was difficult to comprehend, for there were no suitable words in her language to capture its essence. Sansa knew now why her father had, at all costs, avoided war in favor of diplomacy. It was a nasty business, one where the victors ruled only over ash and blood. 

 

The Hound helped her off his horse, turning her to face the wooden building. His hand on her shoulder, her captor lead her through the camp and this devastated landscape. Judging by its decor, the building had been a whore house, and a fairly upscale one by Northern standards. Some of the girls were still there, and probably not getting paid for their work. 

 

_ Though what is money when your life is at stake?  _ Sansa contemplated, knowing these women had little choice in the matter—kept for the comfort of foreign soldiers. 

 

The proprietor had either been killed or run off, as there were only the Hound’s men to be seen in the large common room. All eyes were on her. The Queen of the North held her head high, her icy exterior befitting of her title. 

 

The whores watched in disbelief, either at Sansa’s own beauty, or at the fact that she had been caught. Perhaps both. The soldiers watched her with a mixture of hatred and joy. Many of their comrades had died on her orders, fallen in battles orchestrated by her hand. Maybe they were curious to see the woman who had been such a thorn in their side; maybe they wanted retribution. 

 

Clegane guided her through the common room, the men making way with scowls on most of their faces. The air in the room was heavy, giving her the feeling that if any single person were to make a sound, chaos would erupt. They were teetering on a knife’s edge. 

 

Finally one man shouted what all the others were thinking. “Northern whore!”

 

Though Sansa did not turn her head, she could feel the Hound’s hand tense on her shoulder, knew he had turned to the man and backhanded him. A rush of shock went through the common room, the sound of Sandor Clegane’s fist connecting with the man’s face was like a butcher taking a steel mallet to tenderize meat. The unknown man surely flew, because some seconds passed between Clegane’s hit landing and the sound of a table breaking under his body. Sansa inhaled, preparing herself for the chaos that would ensue. 

 

But it didn’t.

 

“Any of you cunts have something else to say?” The Hound’s voice held a rage to it that silenced the whole room, that would make his own men piss themselves. 

 

To her surprise there was silence. Not a single person spoke against him—much less breathed.

 

_ How many atrocities must a man commit to command such fear? _ she asked herself, feeling just as unsettled as everybody else in the room.

 

Satisfied no one else would speak up, he lead her up two flights of stairs to a single room at the end of the hall. The soldiers and their company stayed in the common room. 

 

They were alone now. This must have been the room of the brothel’s owner, as it held a few expensive trinkets, a large fireplace, and a huge feather bed. One could have easily fit five people in it, which meant it was the perfect size for Clegane. 

 

A familiar nervousness began to run through Sansa’s body, nearly stopping her legs from moving. She had been in such situations before, knew what men did to women when they had no fear of retribution. At least those times had been in her home, just at the mercy of Bolton’s sadistic bastard. Now she did not even have the small comfort of being in familiar surroundings, at the mercy of a man she feared even more than Ramsay. 

 

Her bowels churned, her body felt weak. 

 

Locking the door behind him, Clegane turned to her. “You’d better remove those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.”

 

Her look must have been fearful, though she was trying to hide her emotions, because he added, “You can keep the cloak on.” 

 

His lips cracked a slight grin, knowing her mind had gone where it had. Sansa did what she could to steady her nerves. 

 

Clegane’s cloak was an all-encompassing, huge, heavy thing. Sansa tied it in the front, so it would not slip off accidentally as she disrobed. The insignia of his house stood out on the thick fabric, the yellow and black drawing her eye in a way it had not before. 

 

_ A twisted sort of wedding, _ Sansa mused, thinking of how the tradition of giving a woman one’s house cloak was often a sign of marriage, not capture.  _ Perhaps that’s what marriage is after all? A prison, even a death sentence. _

 

There was no denying her bitterness when it came to the institution of marriage. She was just twenty years old with two marriages and one betrothal under her belt. It merely added to her disgust with the rules of southern high society. 

 

Sansa knew now why families fed little highborn maidens lies about love and marriage. It was to shield them from the reality of life. To give them some happy years before they were forced to marry a man they barely knew, much less loved. No matter the songs her mother had sung her and the stories her Septa had told her, Sansa had always been destined to be a broodmare—to be gifted from one lord to another for her name and the chance to be part of a dynasty. 

 

It was when you rejected the status quo, however, that living in such a system became difficult. She had suffered tremendously to achieve what she had, taking her rightful place among the great houses of the North, leading them against the southern aggression. Though here, being caged with the fiercest and most unforgiving warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa questioned her own resolve to carry on.

 

In times like these, Sansa often wondered what her septa would think of her now. A ruler, a queen, and a general, hardened to life and the horrors it had thrown at her. Nothing about her now resembled the woman that  she was raised to be. She was far from the girl she had been the last time she and the Hound had seen one another in King’s Landing. He knew that, of course, having felt the sting of her victories more than anyone else. This made it difficult for her to gauge his mood.

 

Sighing deeply, Sansa worked quickly to remove her soaked clothing. She had not realized how cold she was until she tried to move her fingers and found them stiff. The realization hit her just then that how futile her ride to Winterfell would have been without the warmth of her cloak. Surely she would have frozen to death, succumb to the elements before morning. That didn’t mean she was thankful to the Hound, much less happy she was alive. Her feelings on the situation would all be determined in the next moments. She tried not to hold her breath.

 

Her dress was simple, only a few buttons and ties needed to be undone. Sansa’s clothing fell to the floor beneath her and under the Hound’s heavy cloak. She removed her small clothes too, knowing that to leave anything wet or frozen on her body was to invite sickness. Her hands were still shaking while she knelt down to take up her clothing and move them close to the fire to dry. Once she was finished, Sansa turned back to Clegane.

 

He had turned to the dresser, busying himself with pouring them each a cup of wine. Sansa had been so focused on what she was doing, she had not heard him remove his sword and armor. The noise that came with such a task had not even registered in her mind.

 

_ I’m in shock, _ she realized, the weight of the day’s events threatening to suffocate her all at once.

 

Her eyes refocused on the man in front of her. His tunic was bloodstained, his leather pants tight to his massive legs. She’d never seen him without his armor before, but even in the low light of the room she could see the Warrior had smiled upon him. Clegane’s physique was unusual in its size and shape, far more muscular and defined than any fighter she had ever seen. There was a dark beauty to him that she couldn’t quite define, but had been aware of even as she lived in King’s Landing. 

 

Sansa took this moment to move herself closer to the roaring fire. Of course she wanted to warm her freezing body, but somewhere deep down she hoped it would give her protection, prayed that Sandor Clegane feared fire enough to keep his distance. Her hopes were quickly extinguished, for he crossed the room to where she was undeterred and held out a goblet.

 

She shook her head in refusal. 

 

“Take the bloody wine,” he breathed, “You’re damn well gonna need it.”

 

The goblet was slightly warm in her hand, which meant she still needed to warm up. Almost subconsciously Sansa pulled the Hound’s warm cloak tighter across her naked body, then she drank deep knowing a rush of warmth would soon follow the alcohol. It was a poor consolation for losing her territories, yet Sansa’s mind raced with the possibilities of what would happen next. As of now, none of them were good.

 

The Hound let a couple of moments pass before he spoke again. “My orders are to hold a trial, find you guilty, and behead you. The Queen finds it fitting you die as your father did. Poetic justice, she called it.”

 

Sansa’s stomach was doing flips, and her breathing became slightly labored. The suggestion of her execution was not unexpected, but the mention of her father was. The South had taken everything from her: her family, her dignity, and now her lands. Neither the Hound nor Cersei had the right to speak her father’s name. they were simply not worthy. A battle raged within her. Had she been a man, she would have drawn her sword and challenged him to fight her for the honor of her family. Unfortunately she knew naught of combat, so Sansa choked down a bit of anger, in favor of keeping her facade as emotionless as possible in the presence of her enemy. 

 

_ Politeness is a lady’s armor, _ she thought whimsically. This phrase had done her no good in life, and would certainly do her no good against the Hound. She was very much as the saying rendered her, helpless.

 

It was only now that Sansa realized she’d come to terrible juncture, one where death might be a way to finally end it all—finish a terrible life that had once held such promise.

 

Raising her eyes to those of her captor, Sansa spoke. “And what do you find befitting of me?”

 

Clegane’s gaze never left her while he poured himself another glass of wine. He was thinking, but his expression did not give any indication as to what. Knowing this made her body even more taut under his enormous cloak.

 

“Cersei has promised me the North. She was even stupid enough to write it down in this contract,” he said. He removed a piece of paper from within his tunic and handed it to Sansa.

 

Holding the contract so the light of the fire would make its words more legible, Sansa’s eyes took in all in. She would have rather been punched in the stomach than read this document in front of her. It was valid all right, assuming Clegane took hold of the North. There was no mention of the need to execute her, which seemed a mistake in Sansa’s mind. She was of the mind to bunch if up and throw it in the fire, but the mark of the citadel stopped her. A copy had been sent there, making it traceable. 

 

Sansa handed the contract back to the Hound with narrowed eyes. “And you believe Cersei will honor her word? Or are you such a loyal dog that you look forward to getting the next kick from her boot?”

 

He grabbed her wrist with his right hand, pulling her off balance and closer to him, then took the contract with his left. Sansa’s expression remained unchanged.  _ He doesn’t realize that his physical threats mean nothing to me _ , she thought. _ He doesn’t know that I’m already dead inside. _

 

Not getting the reaction he desired, Clegane let her go and folded the contract back into the inner pocket of his tunic. He considered something a moment, the firelight dancing across his hideous face. 

 

Then he grinned. “Dorne is in revolt, the Ironborn pillage the coasts, and Highgarden has stopped sending food to the capital. It’s only a matter of time before Baratheon’s bastard at Storm’s End starts kicking up a fuss too. Cersei has too many problems on her hands to worry about what happens in the North, as long as it is pacified. Fuck, she has too many problems to stay long on the Iron Throne, I’ll wager.” Clegane was not one to mince his words, and Sansa was at least glad for this. 

 

_ He’s more politically savvy than I gave him credit for, _ ’ she thought, _ but even that has its follies _ . Sansa mulled over his words in her head carefully, not knowing what he would say next, but on the edge of her seat nonetheless. 

 

He was not the type to play the game of thrones, which made his motives all the more curious.

 

Clegane rubbed his beard mindfully, taking a few steps back so as to reach his goblet. “I’m not so stupid to think I could rule the North without a Stark. One might even say it’s suicide.”

 

Upon hearing those words leave his lips, it felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. Sansa was literally gasping for breath, though her face did not show it. Her hands shook beneath his cloak, which she allowed only because he could not see it. The only hope she held in this moment was that the Hound could not sense her fear and apprehension.

 

“So I have a proposition,” he began. “Agree to be my wife and I’ll pardon you. Then with time... We’ll see,” he said, choking a bit on his words, which made Sansa wonder how nervous he was to ask her such a thing. 

 

Sansa’s heart sank and she fought the tears that threatened to roll down her face. They were not tears of fear, but those of anger, of the purest kind of rage. Her cheeks were reddening, her blood pressure going through the roof. 

 

The words came stumbling out of her mouth before she could even think. “I refuse to be yours, or any other man’s broodmare. Your answer is no. Behead me and be done with it.”

 

She had not realized how close they were, her finger resting square in the center of his chest, staring him directly in the eye. There was no mistaking how angry she was, her face flush at his outrageous proposition. Perhaps she had walked over to him, though she had no memory of it. They were so close his scent filled her nostrils. He smelled of the North now, like fur trees and wet dirt. It unsettled her.

 

But she stood by what she said, her whole life she had been valued for her name and her womb—nothing more. She had fought too long and too hard to give up everything to be the wife of any man, much less the second son of a low southern lord, a mere goon of the Lannisters, a murderer.

 

Clegane breathed in deep, as if he relished her touch no matter how small or angry it may have been. His hair hung to one side, shielding the burned side of his face from her view.

 

“I did not make the rules of this land, Sansa. You and I both know I’ve broken almost every law of man and god, so you can imagine I don’t care much for them.” He whispered his words, forcing Sansa to lean in further in order to hear him properly. “But if we are wed I can protect you from Cersei, make certain assurances that you will…stay in your place.”

 

She didn’t figure Clegane for the marrying kind, much less one to consider how he might use the political system to his advantage. That still didn’t instill hope in Sansa that this marriage would be different from any other she had been forced into before. His reputation left no room for interpretation, it might even please Cersei more, knowing Sansa would have to submit to a man like him. 

 

Sansa felt ill.

 

Sandor then raised a finger to her ear and pushed some of her hair behind it. She didn’t flinch, though his touch wasn’t particularly welcome. “Just think about it. It seems a waste to have endured what you have, then fight so hard for something just to give up now.”

 

His words made her blood boil, churned up so many emotions she had suppressed since her escape from King’s Landing, since the last time they had been this close. Sansa made a move to slap him, but he easily caught her hand, a grin on his face knowing he had broken her icy exterior. “What do you know of my battles? Of the things I’ve had to endure?” She spat through gritted teeth.

 

Though he had the physical strength to hold her in place, it was his eyes that kept her frozen there. They both silenced her and assessed her, delving unbid into her soul. “Joffrey was an entitled prick, the Imp unworthy, and Ramsay”—he was choosing his words, a flush of anger rising in his eyes—“deserved even more than what he got.”

 

It wasn’t clear whether he meant these words to be soothing, the Hound wasn’t a pacifier by nature. But it was, at the very least, some recognition of what had happened to her and the injustice of the situations that kept cropping up in her life. It made her look at him differently than she had before.

 

The Hound suddenly released Sansa’s wrist. “When I come back, I want a clear answer.” 

 

There was no room to argue with him. 

 

His words were final. 

 

Walking past her, Clegane then picked up her wet clothes and threw them out the window. 

 

“What was that for?” she asked, enraged.

 

“Can’t afford to have you sneaking out,” the Hound replied with a sheepish grin. “Be happy I’m not tying you to the bloody chair.”

 

With that he left the bedroom, locking the door behind him. 

 

At the final click of the key in the lock, Sansa crumpled to the floor. Her body ached from the hardship of the day, her head was spinning from her discussion with the Hound. The acrid feeling of defeat began to rise in her throat, choking her, threatening to render her motionless on the floor. All she had ever wanted was to return to her homeland, take her rightful place as ruler, and live out her life. But nothing was as easy at it seemed, and Sansa found herself in yet another unforeseen hell.

 

The Hound was not wrong. It would do him no favors to execute her. He needed her more than she needed him from the political standpoint. Cersei had set him up for failure, giving him a kingdom that was so fiercely loyal to her family. It was surprising his queen had not thrown Herrenhall in the mix, just to sweeten the deal. Northerners were unruly in the best of times, to the point that even a man like Sandor Clegane would not be able to keep them in their place.  

 

He had known that the moment he signed the contract, and gone off to war anyway. 

 

It was a hint as to his true desires, and Sansa didn’t know how to feel about it.

 

She didn’t know if she could feel at all.

 

Part of her felt guilty, even selfish, for flirting with the idea of welcoming her own death. That had been his second option after all, either choose him as her lord husband, or die. Sitting there on the wooden floor of a whore house in the middle of who-knew-where, Sansa weighed this macabre option seriously. Clegane’s older brother had a torrid history with women, and nothing promised the younger one would be any better. Sure, in King’s Landing he had promised not to hurt her. He had even saved her. They had shared moments that were forbidden, death the cost had anybody found out. Yet Sansa had endured many empty promises in her life, and the promise of security had been the one most often broken. 

 

Picking herself up from the floor, Sansa settled in a small armchair near the fire, bringing her knees to her chest.  _ How far am I willing to go for my people? _ she asked herself _. For the North?  _

 

Male and female rulers had very different negotiation tools at their disposal. It hadn’t taken Sansa long to figure that out. Had she been her brother, she would have been murdered. Yet as a women, she was either thought of as nonthreatening or a means by which to foster peace. Of all the men in Westeros, the Hound was the best placed to know her true nature. They had been locked in a war for many years, neither one of them budging.

 

Reading between the lines of what Clegane had told her, it was hard to discern what he had meant by “we’ll see.” Was he giving her a glimmer of hope so that she would have added incentive to choose him over death, only to turn it on her later? Was he merely being honest to her in the privacy of his commandeered quarters, committing high treason against the crown on her account?

 

Though the Hound played by the rules, Sansa remembered he had also been subversive to the crown.  _ He offered to steal me away during the Battle of the Blackwater, after all. Had offered to protect me and return me to my family. To desert the Lannisters in favor of… well, I don’t really know what. Ransom? Freedom? Something more? _

 

After her rejection, he must have found his courage to fight, because it seemed he was still in good standing with his Queen. Sansa sighed, not sure what to do. She could not fight for the North if she was dead. She could not fight for the North if she were locked away in a tower for the rest of her life. If he had done anything, he had pushed the wolf into a corner, and every animal, no matter how domesticated or wild, would strike when it was out of options. 

 

Sansa would have to make her own luck. She could see that now. 

 

_ Am I strong enough to make the right decision?  _ She wondered if any of her male ancestors had asked themselves such a question before, or if they had just ruled without considering the consequences of their actions.  _ Probably the latter, _ she decided,  _ but surely none of them were faced with the choice of marrying their captor or death. _

 

Sansa stared into the fire, as if it were going to give her the answer she needed. She was but a wolf backed into a corner, alone in the world, faced with a bloodthirsty hound offering a twisted pact. One that offered as much hope as it did peril. Sansa watched the fire flicker while she tried to devine the depths of her own heart, finding frustration in the task.


	3. A Journey into the Heart of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes a choice that will change her life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated in the warnings and in the description of the story, there is some dubious consent and this is the chapter in which you will find it. So please, if this is a trigger for you, please reconsider reading this chapter. 
> 
> With that said, a special thanks to Toodle_OO and Teakturn for reading this chapter over, giving me "the business" on having them hop into bed too quickly and pushing me to fill it with some satisfying backstory :-) It really strengthened the chapter and I'm happy with it. THANKS!!!

#  Chapter 3: A Journey into the Heart of the Wolf

 

The floorboards of the hall creaked under his weight, letting Sansa knew the Hound was approaching the room before he had even put the key in the lock. For a slight moment she felt her throat go dry, knowing he would want an answer the moment he crossed the threshold. Inhaling she sat upright in the arm chair, now facing the door. 

 

When the Hound entered the room Sansa quickly eyed him, assessing how drunk he was. If he wavered one little bit on his feet, or stunk of booze, she would refuse to have this conversation until morning. He seemed fine, however, closing the door behind him without any sort of unsteadiness. It was when his eyes fixed on her, however, that there was no mistaken he was stone sober.

 

_ He has changed _ , Sansa noted. It was hard to forget how he had come to her during the Battle of the Blackwater, stinking of booze and at half his strength. Part of the reason she had not fled with him had been just that, she had not felt him fit to fight—much less leave the castle undetected. 

 

The chaos of the Blackwater had been their last face-to-face interaction, alone in her room on a dark night similar to this one. Though many years had passed since then, Sansa would never forget the intensity and fear that moment had brought her. She had been at his mercy while a battle raged around them, a girl in the hands of a man. Then, the hulking warrior held a knife to her throat in the dark, more drunk than she had ever seen him. He had demanded a song, though at the time, she had been afraid he would want more. Sansa had refused the Hound, not knowing what his intentions were. He had promised to take her away, something her younger self had yearned for, but lacked the bravery to do. She had rejected him twice that night. 

 

Now, staring at him across the room, Sansa wondered if he held her any ill will. Clegane locked the door behind him and moved into the center of the room, only a few paces from where she sat. His face not divulging his thoughts in the quiet of the brothel master’s room.

 

During her time in the capital the Hound had never hurt her, not like the other knights. Of all of them, she had trusted him the most. An ironic situation, one her younger self had not fully understood. Yet his very existence had always struck a chord of fear in Sansa. From his size, to his mood, to his face, he was the embodiment of a storybook monster, but a monster she had only feared before she knew what real evil was. 

 

Since that night, she had thought many times about Sandor Clegane, and wondered what had become of him. As he came North with his armies, she had been shocked that he had not only stayed with the Lannisters, but even advanced in the ranks. This made her wonder if his offer at the Blackwater had been the product of his fear of fire and his love of alcohol, or if he had slinked back to the hand that fed him, too craven to runaway alone.

 

She did not know.

 

She did not know Clegane now.

 

She had not spoken to him or been in his presence since he had given her his bloodstained cloak. She could not remember if they had shared a kiss that night. Everything was so fuzzy, fear and adrenaline having muddled her memory. What did stand out, especially now as she faced him once more, was that she had denied him. She had chosen the den of lions over the Hound.

 

Part of her wondered if that was why he had so gladly marched north for his revenge. A man spurned, who wanted nothing more than hand her the ultimate defeat through death or marriage. To possess her in a way he could not have in King’s Landing. 

 

Yet, she had looked into his eyes as he had offered her this pact, and wondered if he was not being the knight she had always hoped for. Doing what he could to shield her from the storm, asking her once again to run away with him so that they might live happily ever after. 

 

She had to know.

 

Not a word passed between them in the firelight. The room was eerily still. The only sound she could hear was the party going on two stories below them. There seemed to be something for his men to celebrate. Sansa smirked briefly at this thought, the intensity of the moment catching up with her. It was an inappropriate response to a life changing situation.

 

She stood from the chair, her bare feet not making a sound on the wooden floor. Once they stood face-to-face, she allowed her eyes to search his own. Then she asked him what she had wanted to know. “Why did you stay with the Lannisters after the Blackwater? You could have run off without me, led a life free of servitude.” 

 

Clegane shifted his weight slightly, her words making him visibly uncomfortable. “I need to know before I decide tonight,” she urged him.

 

“It’s complicated,” he answered finally, resisting his own reflex to look at the floor.  

 

His answer wasn’t good enough, and her eyes bore into him demanding more. Clegane’s Adam’s apple bobbed a moment, indicating his extreme discomfort with her line of questioning. After some time he continued, “I stayed for loyalty. But not to Joffrey or Cersei.”

 

“For me?” Her words were but a whisper, barely audible though they stood so close together. 

 

The Hound said nothing to confirm her declaration, which meant she had guessed correctly. He had stayed to be her protector, and she had left him to run off with Lord Baelish. A young girl, so afraid of monsters she had neglected to see Littlefinger for what he was, but he had never fooled the Hound.

 

Sansa looked into his eyes one last time in an attempt to detect deception or lies. He wasn’t a liar. 

 

“A hound will die for you but never lie to you.”  _ Had those not been his words to me all those years ago? _ He had hate in his heart, but then again, so did she. Sansa looked up at him, remembering how desperate he had been at the Blackwater, and realizing she might have been too young to understand the real reason why. She would not make that mistake twice.

 

Even as she had left the comfort of her chair to join him in the middle of the room, Sansa had still not made her choice. She had not known whether death would suit her better than a life with him. They were close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating off of him. They stared at one another, silence their only companion.  _ Sandor Clegane has done many unforgivable things, _ Sansa reasoned,  _ but not to me. _ For as much as it pained her heart, Sansa would have to trust that he was the man she thought he might be. 

 

_ Could it be any worse than before?  _ Sansa’s mind toyed one final time with the possibility of facing her own demise.  _ No _ , she realized. The world had made it clear to her that she would never marry for love, duty would always come first. Of all the men that had come into her life unbid, Sandor Clegane had been one of the few that had treated her with some sort of dignity. If he was as loyal to her as he claimed, then to agree to join their houses would be no different than what she had been raised for. 

 

_ He can have my body,  _ Sansa decided,  _ but my heart is mine.  _

 

Taking a deep breath, Sansa unpinned his cloak and let it pool at her feet. She would leave him no doubt of her intentions, no room to misinterpret her choice. The brothel master’s room was cold despite the roaring fire, so much so that she could feel every hair on her body stand on end. Her bodily reaction could, just as easily, have been due to fear. She was giving herself to the most feared man in Westeros after all, how else was she supposed to feel?

 

_ Vulnerable _ , was the only word that entered her mind. She stood there naked in front of the Hound, the perfect sacrifice to a southern invader. Bearing the brunt of him so that her people might not, so that the North might live. It was the ultimate surrender, one she would never truly be ready for.

 

Clegane’s eyes never flickered from her own, never faltered from her gaze. He merely brought his thumb and forefinger to her chin, tipping her head up toward his own. 

 

“I’ll never hurt you,” he said, his voice holding a promise. 

 

“I remember your promise from the Blackwater,” she said, her eyes ice. “Yet you slaughtered my men at the Twins. Executed them without vying for their release. That pains me just as much as any strike by your hand.”

 

He considered her words a moment, a wry grin crossing his face as if something finally made sense to him. Then, when it seemed he had no words to say, he kissed her. It was surprising, the softness with which his lips met her own. It contradicted everything she knew of the man, and everything that had ever been whispered about him in the halls of the Red Keep. 

 

Sansa didn’t kiss him back, though, even when his arms wrapped around her, forcing their bodies to touch. The cotton of his tunic was rough on her skin, his weathered fingertips tracing heavy lines down her back to her bum. 

 

There had been a time in her life where all she had ever wanted was to kiss her prince and fall in love for the rest of her life. Then, she had associated kissing with love and devotion. But, time changed, and the real world came crashing down hard around her. Now, Sansa had come to associate the act of kissing with dehumanization and emotional trauma. 

 

Ramsay had often kissed her, open mouthed with his tongue and his teeth. There were no love in these acts, no gentleness to be had. His sadistic nature left him devoid of feelings, gave him joy at the pain of others. His mouth would leave bruises on her so painful, it was difficult to move or sit. He had defiled her with his words, made her feel pain both physically and emotionally with his mouth, and his so-called affections.

 

He was dead now. 

 

He could never hurt her again. 

 

The fear of intimacy he had instilled in her, however, remained.

 

Sandor Clegane was, against all odds, sweet. His lips held the passion of any fair prince from a book or song, from a time in her life long forgotten. His mouth worked its way softly around her own, as if knowing she would, at some point, give into this little war of attrition. Sansa reminded herself that she would humor his desires, while keeping her heart for herself. Yet, she could not help but feel a slight dent in her resolve. Clegane’s affections moving through his lips, then seeping through her skin in a way she could not have imagined.

 

By all accounts, Sansa’s heart was made of stone. Joffrey had squeezed it and kicked it around, Ramsay drove a stake through it, and now Sandor was doing what he could to breath life back into it. A warmth began to grow inside her chest, with each tender kiss he placed on her mouth and neck. A tingle began to grow between her legs, with every caress of her naked skin. Sansa had never wanted to return this kind of love before, and every fiber of her heart told her to resist.

 

Even if she could have kissed him, something was sabotaging her from within. Sansa couldn’t coax her lips into action, though the urge to try was fighting its way to the surface. To do so would be to make herself even more vulnerable, to show weakness in the face of her enemy. 

 

She would not be defeated by him a second time this day.

 

Her lack of reciprocity didn’t seem to discourage Clegane from what he was doing. His kisses were persistent, with a thinly veiled hunger behind them. His lips and tongue were experienced, though she wondered to herself how he could have gained such knowledge as mean and unappealing as he was. 

 

Clegane was certainly putting his experience to good use, leaving a warm trail with his mouth around her ear, over her jaw-line, and down her neck. His beard was rough, but this somehow heightened the feeling of his touch, making her skin more sensitive than it normally was. Reluctantly she opened her neck to his advances, giving him the access he truly desired. Clegane eagerly pressed her closer, moving his lips over her throat and around to the other side of her neck. His passion was all encompassing; he used it much like he used a sword, overwhelming his enemies with his sheer will.

 

Sansa was stiff, like a soldier at attention. Her mind constantly wondering when he would turn violent. She had seen him in battle, knew the things his hands were capable of. It was difficult—if not impossible—to separate the man in this room before her from the Hound. She had to focus hard so the fear would not overtake her. The last thing she wanted to do was upset the Hound, tip the balance of favor against her. That was why she stood as still as she absolutely could, hoping these mixed feelings of fear and desire would pass. 

 

Her throat was going dry, her heart was beating out of her chest, her body trembled.  _ Do all men feel this way before they go into battle?  _ she asked herself.

 

As if he had read her mind, Clegane abruptly ceased his affections, leading her by the hand to the brothel master’s bed. He sat on its edge, kicking off his boots and throwing his tunic over his head. Even in the dim light it wasn’t hard to see how strong he was. The shadows shielded her from the burnt side of his face, but allowed the rest of his body to be bathed in the warm glow of the firelight. 

 

Clegane had a thick neck, muscled and strong through his work with a sword. His shoulders and biceps defined to the point she could see almost every fiber of his heavily worked arms. Joffrey had often been cruel to the Hound in King’s Landing,calling him ugly and hairy. While few would argue about Clegane’s looks, Sansa had never found fault with the hair on his body. It covered his well-formed chest, creating an appealing trail into his britches. 

 

She could not keep her eyes from roaving his naked torso, no matter how hard she tried.

 

He pulled her so she stood between his knees, his eyes taking her in just as she had done with him. Clegane stared at her face a long time, attempting to discern her state of mind. Sansa did her best to hide her fear and apprehension at the entire situation—neither wanting to upset him nor back down. It pained her that her body was the cost of her throne. A matter discreetly discussed in the darkness of a northern brothel. Then again, there were worse ways to stay in the game of thrones. 

 

At least the choice had been hers, and hers alone.

 

His eyes slowly moved over her breasts, down her belly, and landed at the red thatch of curls that covered her woman’s place from his view. His breathing became heavier, and his hand shook ever so slightly as it traced a line down her stomach.

 

Clegane looked up at her suddenly, his voice low and gruff. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” He was taking care not to show all of his emotions, though Sansa could sense he was holding something close to his chest, a secret only he knew. Something he was perhaps going to impart on her now.

 

Judging by his tone, Clegane had not expected her to answer his question. Sansa did anyway. “For what? For me to sacrifice myself to you? For you to lord yourself over me by using your strength and your manhood to keep me in my place?” She was angry when she said it, a flush rising in her cheeks that she couldn’t cover. 

 

Clegane gazed up at her a long while, searching her eyes to sort the truth in her words from the anger. She’d never seen him think at King’s Landing as much as she had in this brief time as his captive. Something was intriguing about it.

 

Finally, he released a frustrated bit of breath from his nose, then looked up at her with his steel grey eyes. “No,” he whispered. There was a long pause while they gazed into one another’s eyes. 

 

She was on pins and needles waiting for him to finish his sentence. 

 

When he spoke again, it was absolute. “To show you what kind of a man I really am.”

 

His words hung heavy in the air, ominous and cryptic. She didn’t know what he meant, only that she had not expected him to care to tell her anything of his desires or motivations. Especially to show her who he was in the dark recesses of a whore house off the King’s Road. 

 

She waited for his lead.

 

Bringing her hips forward, he bid her straddle his lap, her knees near his hips, her feet next to his knees. The Hound’s head rested at the level of her chest. Sansa wondered in this moment if anyone in the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen this perspective of Sandor Clegane before. Given he was so tall and so skilled in battle, she was sure nobody had ever looked down upon him quite like this and lived to tell about it. 

 

Much like his namesake, the Hound pressed his nose between her breasts, inhaling her scent and savoring every moment. He nuzzled her skin like a man starved, the depths of his desire to be intimate with her only now starting to materialize. She could feel the tickle of his beard on the upper most part of her belly. The ridges of the burnt side of his face titillated her left breast, making it far more sensitive than she had ever felt before. A little voice inside her head told her to resist, and she sucked in breath in an attempt to do so.

 

There was no sense of urgency in this man. Clegane was older than her by over a decade, and she wondered if this played a role in his reverence of her. She could never profess to have had much experience in the marriage bed, particularly under the circumstances of her second marriage. Yet it struck her as so foreign to see a man like Sandor Clegane lavish such heartfelt attention on her. It was as if she were not simply an object for his pleasure, but something he valued to protect, even keep. 

 

He gripped her tightly, forcing her to steady herself by placing her hands on his shoulders. Clegane kissed the undersides of her breasts with affection, his lips coming teasingly close to her nipples. Every time his beard would brush against their hardened tips, she found herself exhaling. As hard as she tried, she was unable to concentrate on anything else but him. Every part of her body was screaming for his touch, and even her breathing urged him further. 

 

His lips clasped around her right nipple and he brought her bum to rest flush with his lap. Clegane’s manhood was already straining against his leather pants, as hard as steel against her soft skin. She tried not to panic, focusing instead on his hands and mouth. Her hands moved over his shoulders, feeling nothing but sturdy man. He was a specimen any maester would gladly study, the perfect representation of a human male. Nearly unbid, Sansa arched her back at the ministrations of his skilled mouth, a gasp passing her lips. His hand was there to catch her from falling, as if he had expected her to do so. Instantly she knew her resolve to resist was fading, despite her best efforts.

 

Clegane stood with her then, as if she weighed nothing, one arm under her bum and one across her back. Turning he crawled further atop the bed and placed her softly on the mattress. His body moved over her, eclipsing her twice over. He leaned his head down and went back to kissing her lips, using one of his hands to pull her thigh over his hip. The mighty warrior was well endowed; even from within the confines of his trousers she could feel his length and girth pressing boldly at her entrance. 

 

Slowly her lips began to move of their own accord, following the lead of his more experienced ones. His gentle nips encouraging her, his soft tongue gently spreading her mouth open for him to enter. Clegane’s oral invasion was a foreshadowing of things to come, she knew that right away. Sandor sighed when his tongue slipped past hers, exploring her mouth with a restrained eagerness. 

 

For the first time in her life, in a brothel master’s bed and with a man she would have never considered a suitor, Sansa felt a warmth rush to the apex of her thighs. She felt it course through her body mixed with a deep physical desire to have him. This brought with it a complex set of emotions she was not ready for. 

 

Emotions she had all but forgotten.

 

His body was so different from her own. Hard muscle covered with coarse hair brushed against her womanly curves, while he lay on top of her. Her hands began to explore his body, checking to see if he was human. Despite his fierce exterior, Sandor Clegane was proving himself anything but the monster he appeared to be.  

 

Sandor’s flesh was warm, the smoothness of the skin on his back interrupted by large, protruding scars. Sansa’s fingers followed them along his muscles, over the ridges of his shoulders and spine. She found herself needing to kiss him more and harder than before, knowing they had shared a similar sort of pain, his on the outside, hers on the inside.

 

Large hands coaxed her legs open even wider for him. Rough fingertips traveled over the tender flesh of her inner thighs, made all the more sensitive from clenching her horse between her thighs during her escape. His hands were memorizing her. Sansa could tell by the way he moved them over her bum, around her thighs, and back up over to her breasts. He had a need to know her in the darkness, to share something with her no other man ever had. 

 

It was an eternity before they came up for air. Clegane seemed so content to writhe gently against her whilst kissing her lips. 

 

She almost didn’t want it to end.

 

One of Sandor’s hands went between his legs to undo his laces. Then, realizing it would be better with two, he lifted up on his knees to complete the task. His manhood sprung out eagerly from the confines of his trousers. The sheer weight of the organ pushing it down, making it point right at her. It was as large and unapologetic as the man it was attached to, looking big even when he took it in hand to pull back the skin that covered its tip. 

 

Even on his knees on the bed’s mattress in front of her, Clegane still filled her view of the room. The fire cast some light on the side of his body which had been burned, it was a nightmarish thing to see. Yet, Sansa swallowed her apprehension, coming up on her elbows and reached a hand out to caress his well defined abdomen. She didn’t know if he was waiting for her consent, only that her acceptance of him was appreciated. He exhaled at her touch, stroking himself as he did so.

 

They eyed each other a moment in the darkness. Then Clegane pushed down his trousers all the way, moving them over his knees and dropping them on the floor. Even performing such a simple task he looked ready for war, his bulky muscles rippling as he moved. It was as if they were in a constant state of preparedness for battle, though she was no threat to him. At least as far as she knew. 

 

It was almost tentative the way he brought his manhood to rest on top of her patch of red curls. The warrior’s mouth hung open slightly, as if he couldn’t believe it was happening. Slowly he began to rub his impressive length over the top of her woman’s place. Each time hitting the hidden, sensitive nub that lived there. 

 

Sandor would dip the head of his engorged penis slightly between her lower lips, gather her wetness and use it to slide over her again and again. It was so teasing, so unexpectedly stimulating Sansa wasn’t sure how to react. Luckily her body knew exactly what to do. She started to bring her own hips up so as to press even more against his manhood. The pulsating of her body was literally begging her mind to allow her to enjoy him more, her heart was pounding in anticipation. She was so sensitive where he was rubbing, it made her grip the sheets in reaction to him. Sandor’s eyes were fixated on her womanhood, his grunts spoke of a deep approval for it, his penis getting even harder as he did this.

 

If truth be told, no matter how gentle he had handled her to this point, the mere size of his manhood rubbing across her was intimidating. She suppressed her concern, hoping he would be tender when the time came. No matter how hard he worked at making her feel safe in this bed, it was hard to silence the little voice in her head telling her to flee. Sansa fought hard to maintain a semblance of normalcy in their odd intimacy.

 

When his eyes turned back to her, she saw something in them that instantly made tears stream down her face despite her best efforts. It was an expression she knew all too well.   _ He’s in love with me _ , she thought. She knew it instinctively.

 

The last time she had seen a man look at a woman like that, it had been her father looking at her mother when he thought the children were not around. She had not thought about her parents together for many years. Their memories were far too painful for her, a hint of how life used to be when she was whole. The flood of emotion their memory brought could not be stopped as she stared back at this man, the most feared warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa was helpless but to allow a steady stream of tears to fall from her eyes.  

 

There was no mistaking it, no covering it up and pretending it didn’t exist. Sandor Clegane was looking at her the way she had looked at young comely knights in her youth, the way she had always dreamed her prince would look at her on her wedding night. 

 

And she trembled with emotions she thought long dead. 

 

In her emotional anguish Sansa gripped the sheets, frustrated because there was no way to hide her tears. No way to shield herself from him. Sandor watched the emotion stream out of her eyes unbid a while, stopping what he was doing. Leaning over her, he took a calloused thumb and wiped her tears away. Realizing it would do nothing to stem their flow, he simply kissed the sides of her cheeks. What more could he do?

 

_ Have I been so starved for love that any tenderness can be misconstrued as love?  _ she wondered. 

 

They were nose-to-nose, staring into one another’s eyes, and Sansa just knew. She knew he understood the reason for her tears, that his secret was out. Sansa was crying not out of fear, but at the realization of all that she had lost. Familial love, romantic love, everything had been stripped away from her. Sansa had never mourned this loss, merely carried on. Now, after all these years of denying love, she didn’t know if she deserved his affections. 

 

She didn’t know if her heart could ever be whole again.

 

Finding her lips again, Sansa felt him adjust his manhood to her entrance. Slowly slipping both of his arms under her, he held her shoulders and her in place. Sandor played with her mouth a while, teasing her by bringing his just out of reach of her own. It distracted her from her self pity, stemmed the flow of tears down her cheeks. Something inside Sansa made her lift her head from the bed to chase his lips, to bring them back to her own. There was a sudden, new found desire for his touch she had not thought possible.

 

She had not realized how wet she was for him until he pushed the head of his manhood inside of her. Her lips parted and Sandor slid in with relative ease, moaning into her neck as he did so. He was far from over, and Sansa felt her chest heaving with anticipation, her lower body wriggling beneath his own in an attempt to pleasure even just the small portion of his penis that was inside of her.

 

He pressed in further, the girth of his shaft spreading her wide, making Sansa grip his back with her nails. Sandor was a skilled lover, moving his hips and his hands independently of one another, making her feel in a way she had never before. It was an overwhelming feeling, surrendering to his body, to his desires, letting everything go. 

 

Once he was buried to the hilt, Sansa let out such a moan it surprised even her. It was a deep, guttural breath. It seemed so ill-placed and unladylike, but it felt so right. Her partner seemed to like it, too, as he gasped at her acceptance of him, moving his hips more. Sansa found her legs wrapping around him, her fingers scratching into his back further, her neck arching in pleasure. 

 

Sandor’s balls smacked against her bum, his thrusts landing with authority. Sansa had always assumed she would never enjoy sex, that she had lost touch with that part of herself. But as he artfully used his hips, moving his length within her, touching untouched places inside of her, she began to reconsider her previous thinking. She was no longer in control of her body, the feel of his skin against her own driving her toward an orgasm. Her hands moved across his body haphazardly, her feet rubbed against the backs of his knees and calves as she writhed in pleasure under him. 

 

She began to return his affections without thinking about it, her lips finding his rough, unshaven neck. Her hips moving so the friction of his exquisite manhood would build up even more tension inside of her. He loved it, she could feel him move with increased vigor.

 

“Yes, that’s it,” he whispered to her, his encouragement making her hairs stand on end with excitement.

 

He was urging something out of her with a persistence that both irritated, and somehow warmed her cold heart. Her nipples were rubbing against the rough hair of his chest faster and harder than before, pushing her toward a release. It was an animalistic sort of coupling, mixed with something animals couldn’t do—something Sansa still wondered if she was incapable of—love. His power combined with her desire to salvage what was left of her true being, made for a devilish pair. Her hands pushed his bum to bury him even deeper within her; her lips whispered words of carnal need to him she didn't know existed.

 

His manhood demanded her hips work toward their combined pleasure, and she was becoming breathless from the work. They were both sweating in the cold room, their bodies slipping across one another in a testament to the intensity of their love-making. His comings and goings punctuated by the sound of him moving in her wetness, and her gasps for more. Sandor was filling her shamelessly, a slave to her wanton needs. His breathing was labored in her ear, his hands moved skillfully over her breasts, his manhood unrelenting. 

 

All at once, she felt her body jerk, an explosion of color filling her closed eyes. She was gripping his stone-hard body so tightly, it was almost certain her nails had broken skin. Sansa’s voice threatened to crack with the shear violence of her release. It was a feeling she was unaccustomed to, an intense relief that went far beyond her physical needs. The guttural moan that had been fighting its way to the surface, despite all she had done to keep it contained, proof that the fire inside her could be rekindled.

 

Her lover was not far behind, though much quieter in taking his pleasure. She could feel every muscle in his body tense, heard his huge exhale of breath at his peak. It took him longer than expected to empty his seed, his eyes closed and his face contorted in what she assumed was bliss. Sandor’s eye caught hers just a moment before he rolled to the side of her, breathing hard. The mighty warrior was out of breath, having labored intensely between her legs. She too was exhausted, a thin layer of sweat visible on her body in the dim light. 

 

For a time, there was only the crackling of the dying fire and the sound of their breathing in the room. Nothing more. 

 

Tentatively Sansa reached between her legs, nervous as to what she might find there. Her woman’s place was not sore to the touch, which relieved her greatly. Her arousal, mixed with his thick seed, was all she found there. Holding her hand to the light she could see he had been true to his word, gentle with her despite the intensity of their sexual desire. 

 

Before her emotions could overwhelm her, Sandor’s arm rounded her body pulling her close so her head lay on his chest, her leg over his thigh. His heart was beating furiously, but his breathing had stilled. It was a touching scene, provided you didn’t know the events that had brought them to this moment. 

 

Sandor took her hand in his, enveloping it completely. He kissed it then and lay her hand to rest on his chest, covering it to keep it there while he slept. 

 

_ What has he done to me? _ she asked herself in the near blackness of the room. The dying fire indicated they had been at it for a long time. Confusion overtook Sansa’s slowly warming heart like a dark cloud on a moonless night.


	4. Daring the Heart of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wrestles with her emotions as she looks forward to what the future holds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end of this very short story. I hope you are enjoying it. 
> 
> A special thanks, as usual, to Teakturn and Toodle_oo for looking over this and giving some good advice. Every time you can look at a story I feel lucky!
> 
> Thanks!

#  Chapter 4: Daring the Heart of the Wolf

 

The sounds of revelry two stories below had long died down, and with it came an uncomfortable quiet in the brothel master’s room. Sansa had not been able to fall asleep, try as she might. Her mind was ablaze with everything that had happened between Sandor and herself. This passion and desire he had expressed for her had not simply formed from one day to the next; it had grown over a long time. It had been something he had nurtured and hidden from everybody, waiting for a moment like this to change his luck for the better.

 

It was hard to know how to feel, or if she could feel at all. Part of her experienced relief, for it seemed that the monster of Westeros—the feared and unscrupulous Hound—was taken with her. That kind of  love could make him easily manipulated, since men were weak in the face of such emotions. In that sense, this union could certainly turn to her advantage. 

 

Almost as quickly as she had thought this, she snorted in disgust with this line of thinking. Of all people, Sansa knew what it was like to have your emotions used against you, particularly the love of family or another. She had sworn long ago she would not use these tactics on anyone—yet here she was considering it all the same.

 

That was Lord Baelish whispering in her ear. He, much like Ramsay, was long dead, executed for his treachery against her, her family, and the North. If she could do one thing right, it would be not to perpetuate such manipulation unless absolutely necessary. For now, Sansa couldn’t be sure if she would even need to lower herself to such depths, and she didn’t want to.

 

Sansa exhaled. Her head was still resting on Sandor Clegane’s broad chest, his warm, naked body flush against hers.  _ He must have a bit of Northman in him,  _ she thought, because he was so warm he didn’t even need the furs, though he had pulled them over her body early in the night. Sandor was certainly a man one could cozy up to in the long, cold winters of her homeland, keeping her safe and protected. 

 

A part of Sansa felt confused about what was going on in her head. In one night of passion, Sandor had made her feel more than she had in many years. Emotions long put to rest, long stamped out, long left behind had come rushing back unbid. There was no way to know what this meant and why. It seemed impossible that a man with his reputation, known for his bloodlust and thirst for revenge, could coax such long-hidden feelings and desires out of her. It was as if he had known more about the depths of her own heart that she did, daring that heart to feel things that made it uncomfortable, even scared.

 

Absentmindedly Sansa ran her hand through Clegane’s rough, curly chest hair. It felt so nice on her fingertips, so human. She marveled at the roughness the hair across his breast, then compared it to the softness of that which lie on his belly. That hair was much finer.    
  


This dark brown trail leading over his belly button and down to his manhood was so surprisingly soft that Sansa couldn’t help but run her fingers over it a couple of times more, stroking him as if he were some kind of pet for her amusement. She knew better, though. Sandor Clegane was far from a domesticated dog there for her pleasure. He was a dangerous man, with a dangerous plan she had agreed to take part in. Sansa exhaled again, unsure what to make of her odd predicament.

 

Even as the dim beginnings of twilight began to etch their way into the room, Sansa couldn’t mistake the presence of his manhood. Sandor’s relaxed, sated length lay on his hip pointing back at her, no more than a finger’s length away from where her hand had come to rest. She didn’t dare touch it, unsure of what the mighty warrior would do if his sleep was disturbed. For now, she was content to look upon it a while and remember how pleasurable he had felt inside of her. Sandor had certainly come to her ready for war, eager to conquer what lay before him. Even so, Sansa had not been prepared for him to use every weapon in his arsenal to find an end to the conflict, her heart the final battlefield.

 

_ And how long will we fight over it? _ Sansa asked herself.

 

Sansa had never shared a bed with a man and felt like his companion. The night time and the darkness had never been her friends in married life. The marriage bed was something to fear. It was a place where you didn’t belong to yourself, but were made to be another’s. But with Sandor, Sansa felt different. She didn’t feel herself, that was for sure, but she did not feel that he had taken something from her without giving something in return. Sandor had been purposeful in his wants, upfront with his needs, yet he had never made her feel anything other than a person he valued. Even now he cupped her so tightly to him, that it was almost as if they were one. 

 

She did feel guilty, though, a lingering sadness coursing through her. The look he had given her had been so strong, so clear. He had kept this love for her buried deep within him, waiting for the moment when he could show her how he truly felt.

 

Sansa didn’t know if she could ever give it back to him. Love had been a weapon used to manipulate and harm her, to keep her from doing what she needed to do to survive. She had never worried that her heart felt nothing, never cared to understand why. It had been better that way, easier to cope with the trials of ruling. But this night, Sandor Clegane had reminded her of the true meaning of love, that it can be used as something soothing, as something to forge a bond just as thick as blood. 

 

If she allowed it to.

 

_ I am so broken. What if I can never feel for anybody ever again?  _ She did not want Sandor to live that hell, for she knew it well. Loving somebody, but not having them love you in return. Of course the love of a child is different, but, in her own immature, idealistic way, she had loved Joffrey. As hard as it was to admit now, she had allowed herself to be lured in by petty things such as power and beauty--only to be treated like an object. The love she had so readily given to him, never to be returned as she had hoped. It had been confusing at first, then saddening, and finally just hurtful. Sansa didn’t want to be the kind of person Joffrey had been. Not to the Hound, not to anybody. 

 

Sniffling a bit in an attempt to choke back her tears, Sansa felt he mighty warrior stir. He was not awake, but he moved his head slightly, stroked her bum with this hand and murmured the words she didn’t need to hear. 

 

“I love you, Sansa,” he said half asleep, his eyes still closed and his breath slow and deep. 

 

A tear fell down her cheek because she didn’t know what to do.  _ Could I learn to love again? And if I do, can I love the Hound? _

 

There was no answer for these questions. 

 

Not now, anyway. 

 

But it pained her nonetheless.

 

Sansa sniffled again, and this woke him from his slumber. She should have known a man like Clegane was used to sleeping with one eye open, the slightest sound waking him. Certainly the weapons that were scattered throughout the room were a testament to his preparedness to fight even when he lie safe in his bed.

 

Exhaling deeply, Sandor moved and Sansa took the opportunity to readjust herself in the tight spot next to his body. She turned so that her back was to him, so as to give her other shoulder a break from her weight. Quickly following suit, Sandor turned to his side and spooned her close to him. He buried his nose in her hair and smelled it, a satisfied grunt leaving his nostrils. His hand then moved lazily down the profile of her body, securing her hips tight to his manhood. 

 

When his length touched her bum, she felt it twitch and begin to harden just a little. In all honesty, she felt a twinge of eagerness run through her body at the thought of being taken by him again. He struck her as a man who would take his pleasure a second time, be it now or when the sun had fully risen in the sky. For now though, he seemed content to lay close to her, his hand coming to rest on the bed in front of her chest. 

 

Sansa observed his palm in the slowly brightening morning light. It was huge, his hand broad and his fingers long. Running her index finger over it, Sansa could feel how calloused his hands were, how each ridge and valley had hardened in a different way so as to grip his sword. His hand was meaty, too, muscular in a way that hands usually were not. 

 

It reminded her of when her father and brothers had killed a bear and brought it back to Winterfell. Sansa had been a child at that time, but she remembered being afraid of the dead beast, then slowly gaining the courage to place her hand on its paw. It had been huge and rough, oddly similar to Sandor’s and yet somehow not. He had always been more beast than man to her, and now, now she couldn’t be so sure.

 

The way he drew breath clued Sansa to the fact that he had not fallen asleep. He simply lay there in the twilight of the morning with her. Then, without warning, she whispered to him, “Did you mean what you said a moment ago? That you love me?”

 

Sandor sighed into her hair, as if he didn’t want to talk about it now but would humor her this one time. After some silence he spoke, “I always mean what I say.” His voice was even, it held a steadfastness that both put Sansa at ease, and upset her.

 

Sansa’s response came out choked, more emotional than she would have liked. “And if I’m incapable of love? If I can never return your feelings?”

 

His free hand went to her shoulder, then trailed down her arm, finally ending at her hip—pulling her even tighter to him. “You worry too much about things that you can’t control.”

 

She was silent, not sure what to say.

 

“Life has never been fair to me, so why should love be?” he asked. His words made her feel an odd relief, as if she were not bound to his desires if she didn't want to be. Her feelings were tempered with a sadness, though, this childhood desire to make things right in the world still contained within her being. “Now get some sleep. We ride for Winterfell at noon, and I expect the castle to open its doors for its queen without spilling one drop of precious northern blood.”

 

Sansa smiled because she knew he could not see it. There were still some things she wanted to keep for herself, and this curious, uncertain, vulnerable smile was one of them. They were daring to do something that had not been done before; a kind of treason Cersei could not have expected. Admittedly Sansa had not expected it either, but the more she lay there with Sandor Clegane in the darkness, the more aware she became of the possibilities open to them. It was uncharted territory, a twist in Sansa’s life story that had been unforeseen. And for once, in a very very long time, she looked forward to what the dawn might bring with it.

  
  
  



	5. Epilogue: Nurturing the Heart of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on her long life with a love she thought unimaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take this moment, as this story ends, to thank everybody for reading and giving your comments. Somehow this ended too soon, but at least I'm open to work on some of the WIPs that still haunt my dreams ;-)
> 
>  
> 
> A special thanks to Teakturn and Toodle for helping me out through this fic, keeping me on the straight and narrow as it were. They both have projects of their own, so it's a great honor that they would take time to look a something not their own.
> 
> Hug and kisses!

#  Epilogue: Nurturing the Heart of the Wolf

 

The Sept of Baelor was filled to over capacity, and Sansa was sweating in her warm wool and leather gown. She was out of place, of course, the end of summer having brought with it a heatwave to King’s Landing that she had not anticipated. It had been easily forty years since she last set foot in the city.  _ A lifetime,  _ she thought to herself. Sansa had sworn never to come back again, yet she found herself here one final time. 

 

“They were your gods after all,” she whispered in Sandor’s ear, though she knew he would not hear her. His heart had failed him one week ago, given him a short and painless death that defied all odds. He had taken his last breaths in her arms. The Hound, the Traitor, the Butcher of the Twins, the Consort of the Queen of the North, the Defender of Northern Freedom, her most trusted advisor, her general, her lover, the father of the King Eddard I of the Six Kingdoms, the father of her children, the love of her life, her best friend, was dead. 

 

Sansa wept openly because nothing could stop the tears. The austere and cold Queen of the North was not known for her outpouring of emotions or showing any type of weakness. Her myth in the South had been one of resolve, strength, and a harsh practicality that embodied Northern people. She knew what the southern courts said about her, knew the rumors, and she didn’t care. None of them knew her or the journey she had taken to secure her family, her kingdom, and her very being. 

 

“And they never will,” she said to Sandor, her fingers lightly ghosting over his hand. 

 

There was an overwhelming sadness that filled her heart. It was mixed with a twinge of regret, which made her feel like she had a bad taste in her mouth. It had been many years since she had thought of this, even considered it. Now though, as her world felt like it was falling apart around her, she could only think of their first year together and feel regret. She felt guilty for not not falling in love with him sooner, not opening her heart to him immediately. 

 

_ I missed a whole year of loving him,  _ Sansa took a sharp inhale of breath at the thought. Tears rolled down her eyes.

 

In their thirty seven years together, it was the only thing she would do over. It made her feel so stupid to dwell on something that had happened so long ago,but she was. Her heart told her it wasn’t fair to be so hard on herself, but her mind couldn’t stop making her feel horrible about it.

 

“I am stubborn and proud, you were always right about that.” She said to him, looking at his face but seeing only the stones with painted eyes on them. They weren’t his eyes, it was his face but not his eyes, the ones that had listened to her, cared for her, smiled at her, loved her.

 

After her defeat and capture at Moat Cailin, Sansa and Sandor consolidated their power in the North. That year had been difficult both politically and emotionally. It had taken much longer than expected to convince the Northern Lords of her independence from the South, and it took them even longer to trust her new lord husband. Sansa could not fault them for that, at the time she did not trust him either, and was not sure what his true motivation had been for making her his wife. Then, it was farcical to her that a man would risk his life, betray his allegiances and gamble everything he had to be by her side. It had seemed weak for a man such as Sandor Clegane to do what he had for something so fickle as love. Yet she would slowly come to understand the depth of such emotions, he had nothing but patience for her. 

 

That did not change the fact that she had been emotionally blocked, her heart so unsure and vulnerable that she felt love a chore. It had taken her so long to open up to him, to allow him to love her, to feel worthy of such an emotion, and to give him what he craved in return. It had been a trying time. 

 

Then she bore their first son. 

 

It wasn’t until she had held young Eddard in her arms, watched this screaming, strong, little boy announce his life to the world that she felt the courage to love again. She fell in love with the boy from the start, and with that, she fell in love with his sire too. Sandor had been an amazing father, much more involved with their rearing than any other lord she had ever known. The children seemed to bring out a side in him she could not have imagined. He was a gentle, loving father. Playful yet not unaware of the things his children would need to know to survive in this world.

 

“You fathered a King, and some of the greatest warriors and rulers in all of Westeros,” Sansa whispered while she stroked his hand and looked over at their children. They were grown now, some with children of their own. The very thought made tears well in her eyes again, some were for sadness, yet others were for joy.

 

After Eddard’s birth, Sansa had eagerly continued their family. While most houses would have been happy with two strong sons, she bore him five, each as big and as gifted with a sword as their father. Sandor had taught them how to wage war, and she had taught them how to rule. They had been good parents, even if they had not always seen eye-to-eye on everything.

 

When the time came to fight for Northern independence, much as her lord husband had predicted, their two eldest boys had gone with Sandor to war. Sansa had been left with the younger three and given birth to twin girls in his absence. Those had been difficult years, keeping everybody’s spirits alive, worrying about the lives of her husband and sons, and fighting a war. Despite all odds she had stood strong, kept the northern Lords and her family together.

 

By the time Sandor and their eldest sons returned to Winterfell, victorious and ready to crown her queen, the girls were three years old. Her boys had gone to war young men and came back hulking war heroes. A tribute to their father’s strength and prowess on the battlefield unlike any other.

 

_ I missed you so much, we didn’t get out of bed for a week,  _ Sansa smiled to herself thinking back to the good times. There had been many more of those than the bad ones, she was grateful for that.

 

“You have the heart of a wolf, never forget that.” Sansa could hear him tell her. He’d said that to her many times over the years as she had faced adverse situations. He had always been by her side, her pillar of strength when she needed it. Sandor had nurtured her ailing heart, and in so doing given her the strength to do what she was born to do. Rule.

 

She had ruled the North mostly alone. Sandor had no love of politics, and no desire to run the North as its King. “That’s best left to a proper Stark,” he would say, then go to teach the girls how to use their swords. 

 

Only once during her reign had she ever really needed him by her side in court, it had been the day Eddard had returned from his conquest of the South victorious. He had always been a cheeky lad, with all of the markings of a good southern king. So it had not surprised Sansa that her eldest boy would come back to Winterfell fresh off a major victory, in search of something more. The northern Lords had packed her throne room, Sansa was seated with Sandor to her right and their Maester to her left. The rest of their six children evenly distributed on either side of her, awaiting their brother’s return. 

 

She remembered how noble Sandor looked in his black woolen tunic and leather jerkin. It was adorned with direwolves and hounds etched into the leather. Sansa knew he hated the crown atop his head, though she found it suited him. He was dignified and regal with his salt and pepper beard, the wrinkles and lines on his face telling a story of a man made wiser through his experiences. There was anger, hatred, fear, love, and laughter there. Even in his early sixties he held his posture, his body was muscled and toned, and he could still use his sword with a deadly accuracy.

 

She was happy to have him there, even though she knew he would say nothing. Sandor was not one for formalities, he found them constraining and without depth. But if Eddard came asking her what she had predicted, Sansa felt much better to have him by her side. If she handled it incorrectly there could be war, and it could rip their family apart.

 

Sandor always used her armrest when he did sit in at court, enjoying it when Sansa would lay her arm over his. It had been her husband’s nervous habit to roll her fingers between his own during these long and--according to him--boring meetings, for he hated being at the forefront of the court. This day, however, he had a distinct interest in being there. 

 

Eddard had walked briskly to where she sat behind her table in the Great Hall, and when he did not kneel before her, much less bow, she knew her suspicions had been correct The light tension in Sandors fingers were noticeable on her own as well, which meant he too had noticed their son’s intentions. 

 

“Peace be upon you, Mother.” Her eldest said with a smile. 

 

“And you, my son. Your victory has been celebrated in every tavern and hall across the vastness of my kingdom.” Sansa’s tone was friendly but it spoke of her apprehension. She was not intimidated by him, for she had faced far greater adversaries and won. 

 

“I’ve come not only to celebrate this great victory amongst my friends, but to ask for your allegiance. Should we not make the Six Kingdoms seven? There is no reason we should be apart.” Eddard was young, only twenty-seven. Yet he had achieved much based on his name and skill. Sansa’s eldest son had been given no favors in this war he had started with the South, but he still had a lot to learn when it came to diplomacy and ruling.

 

“You grew up playing on the floor of this hall, listening to the Lords and Ladies of the North wish for, then achieve, their own historical kingdom separate from that of the South.” Sansa’s words were ice, a typical harshness known well in court, but foreign to her children with whom she had always shown warmth and love. “What makes you so sure we would give it all up now?” 

 

Her eldest paused a moment, then answered, “Because I’m asking nicely.” Sandor gripped her hand now, no longer hiding his displeasure with the situation. The grumbles from the audience meant there was displeasure amongst the great houses of the North as well.

 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed a moment before she turned to Sandor. She was going to have to make an example out of the new King of the Six Kingdoms--even if she took no joy in it. “My love, do you remember how long I was in labor with Eddard? It’s been so long ago.”

 

A wry grin crossed her consort’s face as he stroked his beard thoughtfully for some moments. “Four turns of the hour glass, maybe five, your Grace.” 

 

Sandor never called her that unless it was absolutely necessary. In this moment it was to teach their son a bit of respect. 

 

“Four hours, by the gods I was young!” Sansa could see a grin spread across her husband’s face. They knew each other so well by this point, and were so fond of one another, that it was difficult not to let it show, even in moments like this. 

 

Sandor cupped her hand in his and kissed it, “He was a large infant too,” he added. “But you made it look easy. You even held court the next day if I’m not mistaken. You’ve always been a strong woman, your Grace.”

 

Sansa smiled at her husband affectionately. He was a good man, and an even better partner. They stared at one another a long moment, their love obvious to anyone there sharing the room with them.

 

Breaking their eye contact and looking over toward her son, Sansa could see the confused expression on his face. He had no idea why she would go down such a line of questioning, particularly when he had just threatened her kingdom so openly. Her eyes settled on him, allowing him to think through the possibilities before she spoke. “It took me four hours to bring you into this world, child. But it will take significantly less time for me to order you be taken out of it.”

 

The room was utterly silent as she made her own threat, a much bolder one than his own. Of course it would pain Sansa to put this to an end as she had described it, he was her flesh and blood. Yet a wolf would gnaw off its own paw, so as to escape a hunter’s trap alive. Sansa knew she would not sacrifice what she and Sandor had built for anything, or anyone.

 

“But Mother I must…”Sansa could see the redness rising in Eddard’s face. She had both embarrassed him and put him in his place. The true test of a rule now would be how he handled it.

 

“Choose your words carefully, my son. They might just be your last.” Sansa was unmoving, cold in the characteristic way that she had been known for. 

 

Eddard was a smart boy, but driven to the point where he often made critical mistakes. No matter how often she had taught him, he always needed to be taught with a firm hand. “As a King I refuse to be spoken to in such a…..” Sansa could hear the sound of a sword being drawn, and knew that Sandor held it threateningly by her side. While she was happy to discuss with her son all day on the finer points of politeness and politics, Sandor was not so patient. 

 

The Northern Lords followed suit, as did their six other children. Her court was now a landscape of drawn swords, light glinting off of cold steel as all eyes and weapons pointed to her eldest boy. Sansa remained seated however, a triumphant air about her. 

 

Waiting for the silence to sink in a bit, Sansa then spoke. “There’s a lot more to being King than simply conquering a land and demanding respect. You must command loyalty, and show others that you can rule, my son. So I will not be bending the knee, nor do I expect you to do the same with me.” She could see a sense of relief wash over Eddard.

 

Because you are my son, I am willing to open more trade with the South in exchange for horses, more vegetables and precious metals. Then we will see how our relationship progresses. Am I clear?”

 

“Crystal.” Eddard responded, still shocked at the overwhelming support and strength his mother commanded. His eye lingered on his father, and Sansa knew he feared Sandor most of all, for his father could best any man with a sword. At the snap of his fingers Sandor would be able to whip up an army and bring them to victory over their boy. Sandor was silent, but formidable and not one to take any bullshit or disrespect, particularly when it came to her.

 

Eddard bowed, and with that the steel focused on him slowly retracted. 

 

“Good. Now, I had planned a feast to mark your victory. Let’s put this minor squabble behind us and break bread.” She knew all would be forgiven, it was not bad for a king to be ambitious, as long as he knew his place. 

 

“He’ll be a good ruler one day.” Sandor had whispered to her during the feast, his palm warming her thigh. She had merely nodded, never taking her eyes off of her seven children, all laughing and drinking together. “But he gets that uppity bit from you.”

 

That comment made her turn, a scandalized look on her face. Sandor had smiled broadly at her reaction, his eyes filled with a deep sort of love and admiration that came once in a lifetime if you were lucky. 

 

“What will I ever do without you?” Sansa whispered to Sandor’s corpse, tears still streaming down her face. 

 

“Mother.” She heard Eddard’s voice  from behind her, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. “It’s time. We must let him go now.” Their eldest had grown into a true man, and a respected king. It was uncanny how much he looked like Sandor, tall and broad with long brown hair and a full beard.

 

She squeezed her son tightly, not wanting to leave Sandor’s side, but knowing she must. Sansa threw her love one last look, knowing it would be a long time before they would meet again, but finding peace in the fact that it would inevitable.

 

Eddard walked her over to where the rest of her children stood. She could see a bit of Sandor in each of their faces, in their stature and mannerisms. With that she smiled despite the pain. She smiled because she knew he would live on in them--that he had left something behind for her to love--to remind her of the chance he had given her heart. They were a reminder that love could be found, forged and nurtured in the greatest adversity. Sansa breathed in deep to steady her raging soul. Deep down she knew he had also left a piece of himself in her heart, an indelible mark that she would carry with her until she too would take her last breath.


End file.
